Elvis Priestley

One of my Christmas presents was a CD - Elvis Presley with the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra. I know that in this age of iTunes and downloads my use of the term “CD” dates me, somewhat, but until the system goes the same way as Betamax videos I’ll probably stick with it.

Elvis had an unforeseen effect on me from a distance, in addition to the music - which I would have to admit to coming to well after he had departed - and even then, only with the addition of posthumously arranged, full orchestral backing to improve a handful of his more appealing tracks.

Presley and Priestley are not dissimilar names. You may think that unlikely, but I promise that all through my adult life, when I’ve been in the position of telling strangers my name so that they can make a note of it, time and time again they have pronounced it back to me to check they are spelling it right, as Presley.

Even when they say it right, they spell it out wrongly, “So that’s Priestley? P..R..E..S..?”

“No, PRIESTLEY - with a T,” I insist, and so it goes on.  

At school, Elvis became just one of a number of nicknames that I had to put up with. Teachers are always vulnerable to this. If it’s only a slight alteration to your name, then you have actually got away lightly. It’s much more likely to be something derogatory about your appearance.

Nicknames for local services provided by the railways were more often to do with familiarity and affection. In these parts alone, there was the Southwell Paddy [Southwell to Rolleston Junction], the Penny Emma [Sutton in Ashfield Junction to the Town station - now immortalised in the naming of a road the Penny Emma Way] and the Annesley Dido [the workers train to Annesley from Bulwell Common]. Older residents still talk affectionately of these lost lines and their passenger services. The trains were personalised because they had become ingrained and reassuring features in the communities that they connected.

I didn’t get here in time to photograph any of them, unfortunately. I did get to travel on one or two steam-hauled branch lines in the 1960s, however, including the Gobowen to Oswestry section of the old Cambrian Railway. It would not surprise me if the locals had their own name for that one, too.  

0-4-2T 1400 Class No. 1458 stands in the bay platform at Gobowen on 28/9/62 with the branch line push-and-pull train to Oswestry. I had previously travelled this route with the school railway society on a visit to Oswestry works. On this occasion, I had gone there with my dad to watch King Class No. 6000 King George V on a special train to Chester. The Kings did not normally go any further than Shrewsbury on the ex-GWR route to Birkenhead.

Birkenhead Sheds - A Home from Home

At our recent, festive, railway club knees-up, someone asked me what my favourite train spotting memories were. It is at such times, that rather than getting into gear and accelerating from 0 to 60 in milliseconds, my brain chooses, instead, to go for a cup of tea.

I dread the moment when I turn a corner and come face to face with a live TV interview team, poised with a pertinent question of the day, leaving me either totally speechless or mumbling nonsense until someone decides that this one’s a dud and they move swiftly on. By the time that I get home, of course, I would probably have been able to come up with something, but by then it is much too late.

I think this is why I write rather than speak. It gives me time to think. My very quick-witted friend, Ian, has all the spontaneous good ideas, and my role in our little partnership [about which, he is possibly unaware] is to embellish his jokes and - if I’m feeling particularly sharp – try to take them on a stage.

My first answer to my railway club colleague should have been, “Birkenhead sheds by bike on a Sunday morning.” Of all the places that we went back to, time and time again, that became the place that we thought of as our home turf – though we very rarely saw any other spotters there, at all. We were sufficiently familiar faces there to be recognised by the foreman - even welcomed in - though with the same insistence, each time, that we should tell him when we were leaving. This had become the location that underpinned our affection for steam, as we bonded with the slumbering giants, all neatly lined up on their day off.

At Birkenhead Sheds in the mid-1960s, photograph with thanks to Ian Hughes.

Most were stone cold, some were still simmering and providing an acrid curtain of haze for us to walk through, a few appeared to still be in steam, and one or two might even have been visiting the vast concrete coaling stage or taking some water, prior to an afternoon passenger duty to Chester.

So, it was, that just a week after our Christmas trip to London, we found ourselves back at 8H, as it had become by then. I have checked my notes to confirm that we never went train spotting as early as New Year’s Day, in any year before or since the 3^rd of January 1967, now half a century ago. This is what we saw then:-

2-6-4 tanks – 42087, 42133, 42548, 42606, 42613, 42647.

Crabs – 42727, 42765, 42782, 42859, 42942.

Stanier Class 5 – 45042.

3F tanks – 47324, 47447, 47533, 47659, 47674.

Standard 2-10-0s – 92019, 92020, 92029, 92032, 92046, 92047, 92049, 92059, 92073, 92085, 92086, 92088, 92092, 92100, 92103, 92108, 92120, 92121, 92122, 92131, 92134, 92151, 92166, 92167, 92247,

Diesel shunters – D2372, D2388.

We were certainly providing a home by that time for many of the 2-10-0s that were unwanted elsewhere. My only cop on the day was 92073.

A typical view of Birkenhead sheds in the last years of steam.

My new year’s resolution? To have my wits about me and a prepared opening remark up my sleeve, in the event of my bumping into any roving reporters.

Cat or Dog?

It would have to be cat. My mum let us have a cat when we were kids and so we have had one ever since [a series of replacements rather than the same one, obviously]. My daughter bought home the last one immediately after we had declared, “That’s it. No more pets” She promptly left home and failed to take the cat with her. He is still here about 12 years later.

For one of my big birthdays, we went to Nice on the Eurostar and the TGV, crossing Paris with a few minutes available to admire the amazing Train Bleu restaurant at Gare de Lyon. The French are big cat and dog lovers, too, it seems. Both in Paris and in the coastal resorts, I have noticed a penchant, especially amongst ladies of a certain age, for both cats and tiny dogs on leads, in baskets – even of the cycle handlebar attachment type, or simply tucked under one arm. They can clearly be a fashion accessory.

Taking the busy early morning return TGV to Paris, and in plenty of time to take our two reserved seats in the direction of travel and a table, an elderly French lady with a diminutive dog strode past us along the platform, obviously looking for her own seat. “She’s going to sit here with that dog,’ I said to my wife, and she did, taking her place opposite us.

Never mind, I thought, it’s only a few hundred miles of close-up dog. The dog spent Nice to Avignon sniffing my ankles. I turned to my wife. “It’s doing heavy breathing on my leg,” I said. From Avignon to Lyon it slept on the seat next to its owner. “About time,” I said from behind my hands. From Lyon to Paris it sat in its basket a few inches from my face, as I ate my previously purchased cheese and ham baguette. “Don’t you dare,” I muttered in its general direction.

“At least it doesn’t stink,” I munched sideways to my wife as the dog watched me eat every mouthful. “Why has it got that stupid bow round its neck?” I added. My wife looked up from her book and shrugged her shoulders.

Approaching Gare de Lyon, attention drawn by a sudden rash of graffiti on every available concrete surface, of which there are plenty as well as on the flanks of the parked up suburban commuter stock, people suddenly and somewhat feverishly began to gather their possessions together, as though there was only going to be a two minute stop at the terminus station.

“Can you reach my coat on the luggage rack, please?” asked the French lady with perfect English who was sitting opposite us. The dog looked at me smugly. I’m sure he mouthed, “Boo-boom.”

TGV unit at Nice station, 1999.

The Semis

I’d seen all 38 Princess Coronation Pacifics by the time I was 14. I’ve never tired of seeing them since. I went off to Newark this morning to renew my acquaintance with No. 46233 Duchess of Sutherland. I notice from my notes that I actually “cabbed” her on Edge Hill sheds on 16/11/63.

They are magnificent machines. She purred past us, looking and sounding in fine fettle and no doubt endeavouring to make up the 4 minutes I was told that she was down on her booked time passing through Grantham.

I’ve never been part of this east coast/west coast rivalry in the way that some of the older railwaymen were, but if I had to choose between a semi and a streak, it would have to be a semi, simply because they were what we grew up with. They were our special engines.

She is due back at 18.00, southbound. I might just go and see her again.

Coronation Pacific No. 46233 Duchess of Sutherland approaches Sleaford road bridge, just south of Newark Northgate station with a Cambridge to York special train, 21/12/16.

Various shades of grey

Sub-titled, Scandinavian TV dramas often leave the impression that they are not exactly pulling in the direction that their tourist boards might wish.

If it’s not snowing or icy, it’s raining. If it’s not dark, it’s going dark. If it’s the middle of the day, it’s overcast and you still need to have your lights on.

The TV Nordic rural landscape appears relentlessly uniform. Misty flat lands, pine forests that seem to go on for ever, interrupted by still [and somewhat eerie] lakes. Various shades of grey, just about sums it up.  

However, undeterred by a serious lack of hype, we decided on a group holiday entitled “Baltic Explorer.” The historic coastal cities, culminating in the magnificence of Saint Petersburg, were all fascinating, even if the bits in between were a little less dramatic.

Baltic railway station, Tallinn. There are international services from here to Moscow and Saint Petersburg, as well as provincial and commuter links to other parts of Estonia. The station yard provides a final resting place for this impressive 2-10-0, No. L-2317.

Christmas, Fifty Years Ago

In December 1966, we had what seemed at the time to be a good idea. We would go to London for Christmas. We would enjoy the bright lights of the city, go around some sheds, which we thought should be quite full, as it was always a quiet time on the tracks, and we might also fit in some football to watch, as well. It was the first time any of us had chosen to be apart from our families at Christmas time, so there was probably a bit of an independence marker being laid down there, as well.

We left Lime Street station on Christmas Eve and I recorded a succession of “blue electrics,” as we called them, as they were the only blue things around prior to British Rail’s blue period, which happened much later on. The only other locomotives noted on the journey were examples of the English Electric Type 1 Bo-Bo D8xxx series and a couple of diesel shunters.

Steam was already becoming very concentrated in the north west of England, which suited us fine, but I was also aware that time was running out for us to witness any Southern steam, and to see and photograph some Bulleid Pacifics before they disappeared was also very much on our “to do” list.

Though we were all train spotters, some of us were keener than others and I was definitely the most hooked of the four. We also all loved both playing and watching football, and though we were all Evertonians, we would happily watch any league match we could and unfortunately EFC were not around in the capital over Christmas 1966.

So, it was, that on our arrival at Euston we found our way to Stamford Bridge where Chelsea were entertaining Liverpool that afternoon. Without the need for tickets to be secured in advance, for joining a membership club or having an e-ticket password etc, we simply rolled up at the turnstile and went in at the Liverpool supporters’ end. BBC Match of the Day’s recorded highlights are available today on You Tube, in black and white, of course, and with a commentary provided by the legendary Kenneth Wolstenholme. Liverpool won 2-1, courtesy of an own goal by Hinton and a winner from Geoff Strong, Boyle scoring for the Blues. Liverpool repeated the feat in the return fixture just two days later and by the same score.

My friend, Ian, had bought a Liverpool scarf on the way in, the idea being that we would blend in better with the Liverpudlians in the crowd, but it nearly back-fired on the way out as we were briefly targeted by a group of Chelsea supporters. We made our getaway, still intact.

Off we went in search of swinging London town. It was closed. It must have been just New York that was the city that never slept. It was dead. All the restaurants that were anything like within our price range were shut. We scurried off to Earl’s Court youth hostel to heat up a can or two of beans on toast.

If anything, Christmas Day was worse. London was like a ghost town. We had the streets to ourselves. A police car drew up to us in Southwark and the officer asked us what we were doing there. We just mumbled, in a fog of bewilderment and ignorance, that we had expected some entertainment, but seemed to have got it seriously wrong. I think they probably just accepted our story and drove off laughing.

It gradually dawned that we might be struggling to obtain anything resembling a Christmas dinner on Christmas Day and that was probably the moment we decided that we had made a bit of a cock-up. Out of the blue, Graham rang his uncle and auntie and they invited us over to share their family Christmas dinner, somewhere near Cricklewood. We jumped at the opportunity and eventually found ourselves rather sheepishly pulling up extra chairs at the corners of their modest dining room table. It was a spontaneous and unhesitating act of kindness on their part, in the true spirit of Christmas, and I remain grateful to them to this day. At the time, I think we just felt slightly embarrassed.

Here we are in reflective mood, at Acton Town tube station, on our way to Christmas dinner with complete strangers [for 3 of us] on Christmas Day 1966. My attention is now drawn to the poster. What was the role of a “station woman” and why does her uniform remind me more of the Salvation Army?

Things perked up on Boxing Day. First stop was Nine Elms sheds. Here we found 6 Merchant Navies and 12 light Pacifics in various states of disrepair, alongside some Standard “7s” and a handful of Standard 2-6-4 tanks. Most engines were not in steam, some were minus their name plates and almost all were unkempt and apparently unloved. The patches of rust stood out in the low, bright sunshine on a cold, crisp winter’s day.

Battle of Britain Class, No. 34089 602 Squadron was being readied for action next to the water column at 70A, which was being warmed by a brazier that we parked ourselves by for a few minutes, returning some warmth to our note-taking fingers and pleased to see a main line steam engine actually looking purposeful and ready to go.

After an imaginary lunch, somewhere in Wandsworth, a line was drawn in the sand. I decided on Stratford and Old Oak Common, but was unable to persuade the others to join me “just for diesels.” Instead, they made their way to Highbury to watch Arsenal [Radford 2, Armstrong 2] beat Southampton by 4 goals to 1 [Ron Davies]. Terry Paine played for Southampton, one of those footballers who seemingly just went on for ever.

I noted 111 diesels on Stratford, including the first English Electric Type 3, No. D6700, which was in pristine condition. I photographed it in fading light and too much shadow.

There were another 72 diesels on 81A, including 8 Western diesels and 7 Hymek Type 3s, but I have to admit that I felt a bit lonely. The other lads only went train spotting again when it had been emphatically stated from the outset that we were going for steam, which we did, regularly, up to its demise a year and a half later, in August 1968.

[This article appears also in the current edition of the Railway Antiques Gazette. I am grateful to the editor, Tim Petchey]

On the Scrapheap

In the days before vehicles with names like Warrior and Exterminator were given special dispensation to park on double yellow lines outside the Co-op, football was a man’s game, or so the cliché goes.

It is true that the game has changed and that attacking players - at the top level, at least - are given much more protection than previously. In a recent conversation with a former professional footballer, who had played in a game at Goodison Park, in 1968 – which, he actually reminded me - was the setting for the most horrific tackle I can ever remember witnessing. It was made by Dave Mackay of Derby on Everton’s Jimmy Husband.

Much is spoken about the destruction of our railway system that was occurring around about the same time that Dave was trying to cut Jimmy in half with a swing of his meaty [left?] leg. A few weeks before that match, we had trudged off to Lime Street station to say a final goodbye to our beloved steam engines.

Throughout our train spotting days, preceding that eventful year, we had watched as the system itself was decimated by Beeching-inspired, branch line closures. We had toured the sheds and works and visited Barry docks, bulging with condemned, rusting hulks waiting for the torch.

One of the things I have learnt in the interim and in all things, is to try to stay optimistic in times of adversity. For example, I used to tell myself after a bad day in the classroom, that the next one would inevitably be better, and it [almost] always was.

The railway heritage scene of today was unimaginable in 1968. Just look at the proliferation of revived railways available now, the range of new build steam locomotives under way to supplement those rescued from oblivion and the army of devoted volunteers who have helped to make it possible.

Jimmy could have been on the scrap heap, too, but he recovered and was back playing again 5 weeks later, scoring 20 goals over the season as a whole. Artistic, rather than destructive, forces now have the edge in football. It may be a bit less full-blooded, but inventive forward play is more attractive and entertaining than ever, because it is allowed to flow more freely and is less interrupted by hatchet-men who did not even get sent off.

In the village, more and more executive houses are going up, Main Street stays the same width, car parking remains inadequate and there will always be some who are too self-important to admit that sensible rules made for the benefit of all also apply to them. However, bull bars have been banned, Jimmy Husband played football successfully for a further 15 years and West Country Light Pacific No. 34070 Manston is alive and well on the Swanage Railway.

   Manston at Barry, 31/12/67.

Manston at Highley on the Severn Valley Railway, 25/9/10.

Missing Trains

It was time for the festive season steam specials - good old Christmas markets. I planned to watch three in a week; Tyseley to Lincoln, King’s Cross to Lincoln on the same day and a week later, King’s Cross to York.

Plans in place, I went back to the telly. I am hopeless at working out what happens in TV dramas. Luckily, I have an interpreter to explain things. “I thought he was in prison,” I said. “It’s in different time zones,” I am informed. “They tell you when each bit is happening at the bottom of the screen, but you can work it out from their appearance, anyway.”

I kept a close eye on developments but ex-GWR Castle Class 4-6-0 No. 5043 Earl of Mount Edgcumbe was deemed to be out of gauge at Nottingham quite early on. That would no doubt be the result of major changes at the station in recent times. Mind you, how long have they had to check that out?

“Are those girls twins? She looks just like the one that died in the garden shed.” Withering look, no further comment.

We embarked on a busy Saturday, undeterred by the loss of the Tyseley train. First stop, Stoneleigh, to drop off a poster and carriage print for a future railwayana auction. On, then, to Packwood House [NT] for some Christmas spirit - a most welcoming Elizabethan country house with a roaring log fire in the entrance hall. It must have been doing just that for 400 years, or so.

On the way back, we checked on the iphone that ex-LMS Coronation Pacific No. 46233 Duchess of Sutherland was still advertised as running. We were in good time when we reached Newark.

Why was there was only a handful of people waiting for the steam special, instead of the usual twenty or thirty, plus? A middle-aged man dressed as Andy Pandy and carrying a large rucksack skipped off the local train from Lincoln. He told us that the semi had not even reached London that morning before the empty stock carriage formation had split in two. The run had subsequently been aborted. When I got home I checked the website again and it had, indeed, reported that fact. We should have checked again nearer to our destination. Two down one to go. Luckily Sutherland was due to be back again the following week.

“Are we still in Germany?” No, it’s Switzerland.” Well, at least I knew it wasn’t Iraq because there was no desert. “So, there were three girls, but no twins?” “Yes, and he had a scar on his face, she had a different hair style and the detective had shaved his head.” “So, the daughter was still alive at the end?” “YES!!”

The semi was shown as running as normal when the times were posted on the following Saturday morning. We were entertaining friends and I explained the added treat we had in store for them before we went for our booked evening meal out – 7p.m. at the pub. Gamely, they had shown the same admirable enthusiasm when I had mounted a similar “share my hobby with me” event a year or two ago.

We walked until the light faded and the drizzle began, had a cuppa, got changed for an evening out and made a dash for Newark Northgate through heavy rain, getting there with 5 minutes to spare. A Class 91 sped through, southbound, and after a minute or two the signal returned to amber and I got that all important, anticipatory buzz, which I hoped was being shared by all. Nothing happened.

Twenty minutes later a young man with his finger on the technological pulse took pity on us and shared the news from his app’. Sutherland had been delayed by an hour. That means we would miss our booked restaurant slot on a busy Saturday night, a couple of weeks before Christmas. We could have been struggling. We left for the pub. Talk about the missing. I’d missed all three planned trains in a week.

Running steam on a modern main line is fraught with difficulties and sometimes things happen. I’m not into the blame culture but I am into culture and heritage. I salute all those who go to great lengths in trying to make it work and usually getting it right. I’d have taken my hat off to them there and then but it was still absolutely pouring down with rain.

The website we should have investigated showed that, as predicted, Sutherland went through just over an hour late. Under normal circumstances, I would, of course, have been only too pleased to wait for her. Partly for the benefit of our patient and understanding friends, here is a photo of what we all missed – until next time.

Anthrax Island

A prominent coach tour operator’s brochure for 2017 lists “Anthrax Island” as a highlight of their itinerary between Inverewe Gardens and Ullapool. There’s a thought. They do also promise a most memorable holiday.

Gruinard Island was the site of a biological warfare test in 1942 which rendered it a danger zone for decades until a more recent decontamination programme was deemed successful. The flock of sheep allowed back there since have shown no ill effects, apparently.

My more immediate concerns are chemical rather than biological. The gym changing rooms have a notice requesting more restricted use of aerosol sprays. This does nothing to deter the young blades, who must go through a couple of canisters a week. I just take a deep breath when the offending articles emerge from their bags and make a run for it ASAP.

On the home front, I have a feeling that cat flea spray is potentially more harmful than cat fleas are and that having weeds in the garden is healthier for you than spraying weed killer. There is asbestos in the prefabricated sheets that make up the ceiling in the garage, which is another good reason not to go in there looking for tools, or, in fact, anything to do with unnecessary home improvements that could be bad for one’s health.

Yet, who could forget the sulphurous contents of a full steam shed on a Sunday morning. We breathed in that stuff happily enough and then complained about the fumes from the diesels that deposed them.

It’s an environmental minefield out there. The shame is that you would look such a prat wearing a face mask, especially on a coach tour of the highlands and islands. I still think I’d stay on the bus for that bit, though. “Move on, driver, please.”

A very smoky Birkenhead sheds in the early 1960s. Photo with thanks to Ian Hughes.

The Hotelier - adapted from “Dick Jones of the Hoylake Horse,” by Michael G Priestley.

Dick and Joan bought a large, red brick, Edwardian house at the top of Dudley Road, in New Brighton. Double-fronted, with its original leaded lights and some fire-places intact, it was a commanding example of its type. It was on the edge of the resort, seven minutes’ walk from the station and ten from the promenade.

Two Merseyrail EMUs at the buffer stops in New Brighton in February 1972.

The “Sandpiper” opened for business in 1972. It was intended that their customers would be businessmen - salesmen, like Dick himself had been. They surprised themselves by attracting the tail end of the regular holiday resort trade, as well.

Always an interesting location at the mouth of the Mersey, New Brighton was on its last legs as a resort by the end of the 60s. Its main fare had become a very seasonal day tripper market. It had struggled to retain its former clientele in the age of the car, the aeroplane and package holidays abroad.

Building fabric was crumbling, the river and sands were polluted, attractions were closing down, new investors could not be found, the local authority was dithering and many residents would have preferred to see that corner of the Wirral consumed by an expansion of the residential suburbs that already surrounded it.

Yet, amazingly, in those rather depressing times in the early 70s, families with young children still came on the train to New Brighton from industrial Northern England, the Midlands and Central Scotland, armed with buckets and spades and a firm intention to hire deckchairs, no matter what. In poor weather, handfuls of bedraggled holiday makers could be seen wandering between vacant units in search of the few greasy spoon cafes and some shabby amusements.

Dick would not entertain criticism of New Brighton. I admired his steadfast defence of all he held dear, in the face of the negativity and increasing public ridicule, which was fast becoming the fashionable way to refer to Merseyside and its problems in the national media.

Dick used other local businesses in his own community wherever he could. Milk was delivered by the milkman long after most people were buying it at the supermarket. The newspaper was delivered from the local newsagent. Parts for failing electrical equipment were obtained from the specialist shop in New Brighton and basic foodstuffs were bought at the local grocers.

Dick held out for the importance of belonging to the place very strongly. Whilst detained in Stalag IVB, he must have longed for the opportunity to go dancing again at the Tower Ballroom, enjoy a pint in the local pub or a stroll along the promenade - just to be back where he came from. It had taken an extraordinary set of circumstances to make home the desperately special place that it was for Dick.  

If the holiday makers were disappointed with what they found on arrival in New Brighton, Dick would do his best to cheer them up. The former prison camp entertainer completely immersed himself in this new role. Ingenuity and war time cooking experience to the fore, Dick was in his element. What the hotel lacked in investment in modern conveniences, was more than amply compensated for by the sideshow he provided.

Breakfast time was pure theatre. To a background of light classical music, Dick would talk everyone through their meal with a mixture of tips about the local hot spots - “bigging up” the Granada Bowl, Fort Perch Rock and Wilkie’s Indoor Fairground - and adding a gentle ribbing of whoever was present.

His customers loved it and they loved him. Many of his visitors returned, time and time again, seduced by his charm and certainly not by the antique state of the electrics, the increasingly dubious “teas-maid” appliance on their bed-side table, or the queue to use the only bathroom.

I loved taking my friends to the “Sandpiper.” As Dick rounded the corner in the hallway he could see his guests through the full-length glass of the interior double doors. He smiled as he planned his opening remarks. They were welcoming in tone but provocatively humorous in content. You needed to be on your guard and ideally have a potential riposte up your sleeve. You felt that he was genuinely pleased to see you and all your friends. They would all get a personal greeting and a firm handshake.

At his New Year’s Eve Party, Dick was in his element. He would get in a crate of bottled pale ale and line up the glasses from the cabinet, giving each one a wipe with a dry tea towel, along the way. Joan would prepare vol-au-vents, cocktail sausages, cheese squares with pineapple chunks on sticks and her speciality, the industrial-sized sherry trifle.

Their friends would arrive; the men in synthetic fibre slacks, sports jackets and ties, the ladies with inflated hair-dos, thick coats, the odd stole and excessive make up. Dick quipped his way round everyone in turn. Rodgers and Hammerstein wafted round the house, courtesy of the speaker extensions.

Business at the Sandpiper ticked over. The kitchen diner performed adequately, given the limited space available for the arrangement. Its greatest advantage had been that Dick could regale his guests whilst he made them their breakfast and that was a master stroke – or maybe, it just happened that way! The showers remained as work in progress until the end, but the bath water was always stinking hot to make up for it.

The Eyes Have It

“You’ve got beautiful big eyes,” said the sales assistant at the till. “Thank you,” I replied, “so has my grandson,” I quickly added. I was holding him up so that he could see all the shopping action first hand. The lady’s face fell. My little joke had fallen on stony ground [again]. She turned away in embarrassment and busied herself with another task.

My eyes are small, rather narrow, too close together and getting older. I tried to rescue the situation by chatting to the younger assistant, who was standing alongside her. Humour transplant required, I thought - and then, oh dear - Has she gone to get the store detective to quiz me for harassment? Did she push the panic button that alerts her superiors to an imminent robbery or assault? Am I on CCTV, infringing the “Be nice to our employees, or else” guidelines. It was only a joke. I promise I won’t do it again.

We went to another department in search of “My First Train Set.” I mumbled to my wife that she had better do the talking. I remembered the first train set that I played with, in the garden of my uncle’s house in Winchester in the early 1950s. I think it was Hornby O gauge and I invented a very ambitious layout for it, as you can see. Sorry about the eyes.

3,000th visit

3,000^th visit today to mikepriestleysrailwayheritage.blogspot.com, so thanks for dipping in and having a look.

Don’t you just hate mission statements?

Luckily, I’m too busy

- flagging up newsworthy railway stories

- promoting the work of the railway heritage movement

- posting some [hopefully] amusing anecdotes

- airing my own railway memories

- digging out some nice old photos

to be bothered with one.

Warship Class No. D850 Swift on a wet day at the north end of Crewe station c.1962

Time Travel

The idea that it is only time that separates us from witnessing amazing events is a recurring theme in popular literature, of course. I’ve had that feeling a few times, for example, when standing in the same room in which Churchill met Stalin, at Cecilienhof, Potsdam and turning the same door handle that he turned to enter the talks.

More recently, we were enjoying a summer’s evening drink on the picnic tables outside the Bromley at Fiskerton, a riverside pub overlooking the Trent. It is a peaceful location frequented by gastro-pub grubbers and a range of aquatic birds, including the occasional kingfisher. The frontage looks over flat fields on the opposite bank of a wide bend in the river. The hilltop village of East Stoke is a mile or so across the floodplain to the east. It is a tranquil spot.

It was not always so. If we had been sitting in the same position 529 years earlier, we would have watched Yorkist soldiers fleeing for their lives after being routed by the Lancastrians at the Battle of Stoke Field. The battlefield site itself is just beyond the trees at the top of the river bluff. Estimates suggest that 4,000 men were killed in an engagement that lasted just 3 hours.

The remnants of the defeated army, fled in disarray. Many of them did not make it down the ravine that became known as the Red Gutter, as they tried to reach the river. The Trent was at that time not just lower, but more evidently seasonal - an altogether less controlled affair than it is today and even ford-able at Fiskerton, at times. Those who made it that far, attempted to swim or wade across to where we were now sitting with two pints of lager and some cheese and onion crisps. Their pursuers hacked them down as they went. From where we were positioned, we could have heard them dying and watched the river turning red.

It is sometimes just time that separate us from events of some magnitude – ones that have forged the course of modern history. Isn’t that just a mind-boggling notion?

On a different scale and with only my own self-indulgence firmly in mind once more, I sometimes re-create railway scenarios for myself, either remembering instances from my own time, or inventing them from my retrospective wish list. I am ably assisted by the railway heritage movement in this regard, naturally, and for railway modellers, surely the same is true? They re-construct a past reality down to the last detail that they feel comfortable with, whether they were actually there to see it in the first place, or not.

I sometimes like to whisk myself back to Exmouth Junction sheds - to a depot full of engines beginning with a 3, when, before that holiday, I had only ever recorded one such number, and that was on a special train at Crewe. I thought I was in heaven.

Now, I am standing at the south end of Preston station and seeing a succession of steam-hauled expresses approaching from the main line to the south. Am I right in thinking that they often came at the platforms quite quickly here, and actually braked fairly fiercely, as a result, whereas those approaching from the east were slowed in comparison by a tight bend just outside the station?

Nearer to home, and I’m being invited up into the cab of an ex-LMS tank at the buffer stops at Liverpool Central High Level and the driver is actually asking my dad if it’s OK for me to go up the tunnel with them to Brunswick and back? IS IT OK???

Those were the real ones. My made-up ones would include me joining my friends on their family holidays; to South Brent when the lines to the west were dominated by Kings and Castles, or going around Haymarket sheds in Edinburgh for rarities beginning with a 6, or spending some time on Perth station in similar pursuit, when I had never actually set foot in Scotland and wouldn’t do so for a few more years. No Waverley route for me then………. Or is there?   

A sight I can’t remember ever having seen – a steam train in Wallasey Grove Road station, in a photo taken by John Dyer, to whom I am very grateful, both for making the image available to me and for firing my retrospective imagination. Collett 0-6-0 panier tank No. 3749 heads a Wrexham to New Brighton service, 26^th April 1962.       

Talisman Railwayana Auction, 26/11/16

A mere half an hour in the car this morning, on the way to the nearest auction to home, but still able to dip into Sounds of the Sixties in time to hear PJ Proby adding some extra vowel sounds to “Somewhere,” from West Side Story.

PJ had a very distinctive style, of course. He is still the only act I have ever seen being noisily encouraged to leave the stage by the audience [successfully, as it happened] - at the Haig Club in Moreton on the Wirral, many years ago, now.

The “Somewhere” I was aiming for today was the Newark Showground. The notice at the entrance pointed me towards both “Railwayana” and “Northern Arms” - but gave no clues as to whether that was prosthetics or weaponry.

The auction, itself, was chock-a-block. The auctioneer thanked people for braving difficult driving conditions on the motorways. I felt lucky to have breezed it cross-county, in some admittedly tricky low sunshine.

PJ wasn’t the only one having a problem with a mic. The PA suddenly gave up the ghost at lot 63, A Great Northern Railway Glass Water Carafe. Words could not describe it, though it looked quite nice from a distance. A replacement mic was sought, found and delivered. It didn’t work, either. The chair’s willing assistant disappeared into a room labelled “Office,” clearly the nerve centre of the whole operation. This did the trick and we had all only missed ten minutes out of our lives -  just a drop in the ocean.  

My attention was drawn to lot 137, An LMS Bronze Medal issued to persons working through the National Emergency in 1926. My uncle did that. He volunteered to drive trams during what the other side called the General Strike. That was a very political decision, especially considering that he was a 19-year old student at Oxford University. Simultaneously, my mother was in the Labour Club at Liverpool University. I’m not sure that their relationship ever quite recovered from that seismic difference of opinion, though they always maintained a cordial and affectionate demeanour during their relatively infrequent meetings.

I didn’t stay until the end of the auction, so I’m not entirely sure if the mic situation held up for the duration. There was another “taaarm and a place for oss,” later on in the day, as PJ might have preferred it. Would the auction results be posted on the website by the time I got home? There is such a race to do so between GCRA and GWRA these days, that I ended up wondering if the other auction houses worry about being somewhat left behind, in that respect. It’s a bit like the rush to be the first electoral constituency to declare on election night.

No hurry, I concluded. Too much haring around and you could split your pants or something.   

Somewhere, by PJ Proby, reached number 6, but dropped out of the charts in the same month, March 1965, that I took this photo  of Ivatt Class 2 2-6-0 No. 46444 at Aintree, on Grand National day.

Peak Rail yet to peak

It was decided that we would go to Derbyshire, but not by train, this time. First stop, Rowsley, now the end of the line for the single track Peak Rail from Matlock. It’s hard not to come to the conclusion that the reinstatement of the old Midland Railway route to Buxton has always been a good idea just waiting to happen - more or less since it closed in 1968. I’m also sure that there are very good reasons why all such plans have been thwarted, so far.

Operating out of the original Matlock station since 2011, re-connected to the main network, and with a site of 28 acres to make use of that includes a 60-foot turntable at Rowsley South, Peak Rail can’t be accused of dragging its feet, yet when you compare expansion here with some of the other leading heritage railways, you have to conclude that they should surely have benefited from more active support from other relevant parties. After all, this was one of the most scenic main lines in the country. The route threads its way through a glorious national park and is within easy travelling distance from many major centres of population, enabling a comfortably timed day out for millions. Yet, in summer, the roads creak with the strain and parking becomes a real problem, but the railway is not even there to relieve the pressure. What an opportunity overlooked.

Perhaps Rowsley is a case in point, serving as a microcosm for the difficulties faced along the whole length of the line. The Grade II listed Rowsley station building sits marooned in a retail park, surrounded by the fashion outlets and coffee shops of Peak Shopping Village. As such places go, this one has at least made use of stonework of a similar hue with some sympathetic paving, all, presumably, conditions of any development at all.

I had a scout round for evidence of former railway usage. I found a rack for hanging fire buckets, though not all the brackets were intact. The building itself is occupied in part by an art gallery, open 3 days a week, and also by the provision of a “community space” which is available for hire.

At Bakewell, the remaining station building now overlooks the Monsal Trail cycleway. No loo there, so I was relieved when I read that the public toilets in the town centre have won a gold award in all of the last four years. The tourist information was selling a book about the original Bakewell pudding [not tart], which was being attributed to someone called Ann Summers.

We took the country route home past Ogston reservoir. Last time we came this way, we stopped for a pint at the Napoleon Inn, wonderfully positioned overlooking the water; ideal for leisurely refreshment on a summer’s evening. Nice and quiet, I thought, as we wheeled in off the narrow road and onto the gravel car park. We strolled up to the front door. The family inside eating supper round their own dining room table gazed out through the window at us in surprise, if not with some alarm. The Napoleon Inn had ceased to exist in these premises years before, it transpired, and we were on the point of gate-crashing the incumbents’ quiet Sunday evening meal. The penny dropped and we slunk off back to the car as quickly as any surviving vestige of dignity would allow.

That’s the trouble with Derbyshire, I muttered to myself. Lots worth preserving, but too many interested parties competing for a slice of the action.  

GWRA Auction at Pershore, 19/11/16

Galvanising myself for an early start and the prospect of a two-hour drive, I cast my thoughts back to a time when keeping natural energy in its place was more of a daily challenge than summoning it up. Luckily, I had the Sounds of the Sixties on Radio 2 to keep me going. Friends swear by it, but I’m still not convinced. While I was hanging on for the promised Beatles, Stones and Kinks, Brian Matthews read out an email from someone living in Spain, who said that although he was a regular listener to the show, “Most of it Is rubbish,” which is pretty much how I was seeing it myself, as I navigated the melee that is the A46/A45 road works. I had almost forgotten how upset we all got at the time by yet another airing of “Yes, we have no bananas,” or anything at all by Jim Reeves.

When I reached Pershore I was faced with a dilemma. Sit in the car and wait for the track by the Nice, or go in and look at Malcolm Root’s painting that I wasn’t going to be able to afford, close up. I rooted for Root. After all, I’ve got all the Nice’s vinyl LPs [not played for decades] and their hits CD.

I offered my bidding card for perusal at the desk but was waved away, presumably on the grounds that I still seemed to be alive and that I had not moved house. I made for the loos, fairly recently refurbished, I think - but, of course, and as I know only too well - school bogs can take some stick. I approached the cubicle and turned around to shut the door. There wasn’t one. Deciding that that might be taking exhibitionism a step too far, I went next door, instead.  

Back in the main hall, my attention was drawn to the Hovercraft poster for the brief service in 1962 that ran between Wallasey, our home town, and Rhyl. I noticed that the advert pointed out that it had not run on a Tuesday. I thought about all the times that summer that my plans for the day had been thwarted by the lack of a hovercraft service to Rhyl on a Tuesday. In fact, come to think of it, the whole hovercraft thing hardly got off the ground at all.

When the image of the totem for Troedyrhiw came up on the screen as the next lot it brought an, “Oh my God,” from the chair, then, taking in a deep breath, “Here we go……Troedyrhiw.” “Six out of ten,” comes the response from the floor. In a nearby classroom, but for the PA, you would not necessarily know that there was an auction taking place nearby, at all. A knot of considerable concentration was focussed on leafing through a pack of black and white, postcard size photographs of diesel shunters, accompanied by the occasional shared observation prompted by an inscription on the rear of the item under examination. Such attention to detail devoted to, what appeared on the face of it, to be such an underwhelming locomotive probably just indicates how little I know about such things.

“Who put the lights out?” came the cry from the platform, as the hall was suddenly dimmed. No one moved. Then it was pointed out that someone had inadvertently been leaning against the bank of switches at the back of the hall. “It’s behind you.” “Oh no it’s not.” Oh, yes it is, actually.

Discussion ensued about the possible use that two pistons from diesel locomotives could be put to, and, although it was without resolution, the sale was made. Apparently, the auctioneer, too, has a piston in his shed that is was waiting for a more meaningful existence than it has at present. Perhaps the buyer had thought of something. If he had, he kept it to himself.

As I drove home, I was kept alert by reports of Everton’s lack of a cutting edge in the final third, in their attempts to gain a miserable draw at home to bottom of the Premiership Swansea City. I thought about the wonderful railway artwork that had been on display at the auction. I may not have been able to compete with the big boys on price, but I took some comfort in at least being able to tell the work of the maestros from that of the merely competent.  

0-6-0 diesel shunter No. D2399 at Weymouth in March 1969

One Clavdivs

In my more anarchic moments I have been known to dip into Viz magazine and last Christmas a copy was a surprise present from my daughter’s partner, who obviously recognises a former Beano reader when he meets one. In truth, I did not get a great deal out of the irreverent and very un-PC comic strips, but some of the contrived contributions to the so-called letters page left me in stitches, as they have done many times before.

One such that set me off on this occasion included a reference to “One Clavdivs,” using a joke that had already been made, I believe, by Harry Enfield and Paul Whitehouse about the historical drama, almost of the same name, which was based on goings-on in the Roman Empire. It starred Derek Jacobi and was seen as rather “risky” TV in the days before the internet opened various flood gates. Poor old Mary Whitehouse. Thank heavens she was alive in a different age. She would just not have known which way to turn today.

Paul Whitehouse, on the other hand, had himself given me a fit of uncontrollable mirth on another occasion that springs to mind. It was one of those moments, sadly rather rare these days, which I experienced frequently in my youth, when I am laughing so much that I am literally doubled up and wondering at the same time, how I’m going to be able to take my next breath.

In December 2013, an unannounced translator had turned up at Nelson Mandela’s funeral, supposedly there for the benefit of deaf viewers, but, in reality, someone who had certainly not been expected by the authorities and who did not have the slightest clue when it came to the delivery of sign language. It was a clear breech of security and a moment of public embarrassment for the South African authorities and it was broadcast worldwide, just at a time when so much of the world’s population was united in grief.  

The funny bit came soon afterwards at a celebrity awards ceremony and was then made available as a few moments footage on You Tube, though, luckily, I happened to catch it on TV at the time. Paul Whitehouse arrived on stage to receive his accolade accompanied by a person unknown, who proceeded to make gestures to the audience which were obviously unintelligible to all, even more so, no doubt, to the hard of hearing. It was as topical as it was pricelessly amusing. I would probably have to go right back to the first time I saw Alas Smith and Jones’s introduction to Jazz Club for a side-splitting tele-visual moment to rival it, at least until someone reminds me of something else.

What has all this got to do with trains, never mind railwayana? I hear you ask. I’m getting there. The writer and creator of the Viz magazine is Chris Donald. He wrote an autobiography, entitled “Rude Kids, The Unfeasible Story of Viz.” I can recommend it, but although humorous in parts, it does not make for comfortable reading throughout, as Chris recalls some of the problems that a rise to prominence brought in their wake. This culminated in a rather sober self-assessment when he realised that the enjoyment had all been to do with the drive to make a success of his magazine, and that once that dream had been achieved the fun was largely over. It appears it was the thrill of the chase that had kept him going. Eventually, Chris ended up working for Barter Books, a second-hand book shop - and so much more - in Alnwick, Northumberland.

Barter Books occupies the old station building at Alnwick, designed by William Bell. The North Eastern Railway opened the station in 1887, replacing an earlier one dating from 1850, which was further away from the town centre. It was the terminus for the branch line from Alnmouth and also for another branch from Alnwick to Cornhill, where it joined the Tweedmouth to Kelso line, and which was opened at the same time.

By the end of the nineteenth century, Alnwick station was being used by sixty trains a day. Those, like me, still clinging doggedly to memories of 1960’s steam, will recall that the line became strongly associated with the Peppercorn K1 Class 2-6-0s, of which 62005 is a notable and well regarded surviving example.

The Alnwick to Cornhill branch lost its passenger services in 1930 and goods traffic ceased in 1953, though the Coldstream to Wooler section survived until 1965. British Railways closed the line to Alnmouth and Alnwick station, in 1968. The substantial, stone-built, twin train sheds both still survive and are home to a number of enterprises today, of which Barter Books is surely the most widely known? 

This is no ordinary second-hand bookshop. We were met during our October visit by a roaring open fire, plenty of animated and helpful staff, comfortable seating, a well-stocked children’s room, an inviting café, oceans of shelf space for browsing purposes, tasteful and decorative artwork on the walls, an overhead model railway and some amazing, commissioned murals that take your eye from above.

You can walk along one of the former station platforms to peruse the aisles of bookcases. They also hold book group meetings and entertain visiting speakers. It would be possible to spend the whole day there quite easily - and especially if it is raining - which, as we found out, is quite possible in Northumberland in October. Luckily, there is also a good selection of railway books. I bought Bartle Rippon’s, “The Alnwick Branch,” which seemed like the obvious thing to do. 

All of this is within the substantial original framework of Victorian stone, wrought iron, timber and glass, which the owners have continued not just to protect, but to enhance, by their sympathetic restoration, for example, of the fireplaces and the canopy.

The Aln Valley Railway is aiming to bring trains back to Alnwick by 2020, although this time to a new station at Lionheart, further out from the centre of town, as subsequent road and other developments appear to have thwarted plans to include the original building in the reconstruction of the line.

When in any bookshop, I make a beeline for railways and then the humour section, much preferring to be entertained in that way than by the classics, detective stories or any other genre, really. Not that I have found that railways, or even the railwayana scene, are exactly humour-free zones, either. At auction, it is usually the chair that we depend on for a bit of light relief from the serious business of all that cash changing hands.

I have to admit that I can find the pleas of an exasperated auctioneer trying to move on a substantial piece of metal with somewhat jagged edges rather amusing. “Deltic flame cut………Nobody wants it for 350 quid?..............My God.” In a different place, there was an introduction to the Lawrence Hill totem, “If your name was Lawrence Hill, you’d have that.” Wry smiles and half-hearted apologies often accompany the various attempts at the pronunciation of the latest Welsh key tokens, and there must surely be a limit to how many presents of china or silver plate that the wife’s sister can make use of?

I had a soft spot for Malton’s regularly aired suspicion that certain items had been found on “Eeeee-Bay,” whilst in another part of the country, the chair asked a buyer sitting near the front and struggling to protect his recent acquisition with bubble wrap, “Are you wrapping your Christmas presents?” All the auctioneers have their own endearing characteristics and catch phrases, of course. Perhaps some styles are more easily identifiable than others, and so I think that many regular attenders over the years might recognise this “bigging up” of a piece of original artwork, “That’s nice. Look at that. That’s nice. That’s almost 3D. £500 to start……£450, then. Not a penny less. It’s got to be worth every penny of that.” It makes me smile. It is all part of the theatre of the event.

We all laugh at different things. Some people were no doubt left in stitches by Terry and June and see Mrs Brown’s Boys as the highlight of their watching week. It is laughing itself that is important. It is sociable and apparently good for your health as well, releasing endorphins in the brain and encouraging that “feel-good” factor. So, thank you, Chris Donald, a man with a serious side who likes books, trains and off-beat humour. I can identify with all of that.

[This article also appears in the current edition of the Railway Antiques Gazette. Thanks are due to the editor, Tim Petchey] 

Keswick railway station? I wish!

“Surely there is no other place in this whole wonderful world quite like Lakeland,” wrote Alfred Wainwright in the introduction to his book on the Eastern Fells. An exhibition of his life and work is currently on show at the Keswick Museum and Art Gallery.

I first came to Keswick in 1960. My parents had chosen a Lake District family holiday staying in Troutbeck bungalow at Grange in Borrowdale. It was also the first time we had ever been on holiday other than to stay with relations. I have loved the Derwentwater area ever since and have been back there regularly; youth hostelling with friends, playing football on Fitz Park, exploring with my wife, then dragging our own children up some steep slopes to give them a compulsory “taste of the hills.” More recently, I am choosing my peaks a bit more carefully than in years past, based on avoiding unnecessarily knee-jarring descents.

I was eleven years old at the time of my first visit. Our train from Penrith to Keswick was headed by an Ivatt Class 2MT 2-6-0. Amazingly, at the first stop at Blencow, the driver beckoned me forward to the engine. He had noticed me, I think, with my head on a stalk, permanently leaning out of the first carriage window behind the tender. This remains one of the railway highlights of my life, a quite spontaneous and unexpected cab ride as far as Threlkeld.

The driver explained that for me to arrive at Keswick on the footplate might gain him some unwanted attention from his superiors, but I’d had my fix and so I returned delirious to the rest of the family in standard class for the run into the town.

The most memorable thing about the ride was how rough it was. Whether that was caused by an out of condition engine, poor track maintenance or just that it was par for the course, I still don’t know. The locomotive bucked sideways quite alarmingly and I loved every minute of it. I perched on the driver’s seat and just hung on. The rest of the holiday was tame by comparison. Even climbing Scafell Pike came a distant second.  

The Cockermouth, Keswick and Penrith Railway opened in 1865, primarily to carry mineral traffic, though passenger trains ran from the start and later gained greater importance. The Cockermouth to Workington section closed in 1966 followed by Keswick to Penrith in 1972. My two visits - by steam train in 1960 and on a diesel multiple unit in 1962 - were timely indeed. In addition to the return journeys on our way home, I also went train spotting to Carlisle - changing trains each time at Penrith - a further three times during that last week in July 1962, so I travelled that section of line 10 times altogether [5 trips each way], and for that I shall be eternally grateful.

This boundary marker, with the original railway company’s initials engraved into the Coniston greenstone block, still stands at the end of Station Road in Keswick, next to Fitz Park and at the entrance to the station approach. The asphalt pavement and kerbstone have been replaced just this year, alongside the considerable amount of reconstruction work that was required after the devastating floods that hit the town and its surrounding area in December 2015.

The former station master’s house still stands and is now a very presentable bed and breakfast establishment, appropriately named and with this smart and thoughtfully designed sign at the entrance. Behind the house, the track bed west of the station is now occupied by the Keswick Leisure Pool and Fitness Centre.

The original station hotel is now the Keswick Country House Hotel. It was formerly owned by the railway company and its construction was completed in 1869. After the closure of the railway the hotel expanded into the adjacent station buildings on the remaining platform. The rest of the former station site provides public car parking space and it is also the starting point of a footpath and cycleway along the old track bed as far as Threlkeld [Route 71 of the Sustrans National Cycle Network and also part of what is known as the c2c, or Sea to Sea, route].

The 2015 floods removed two of the old bowstring bridges that once carried the railway through the Greta gorge and damaged a third one, dramatically curtailing the leisure path in the process. We walked the section out of Keswick that remains open, past the site of the old bobbin mill platform at Briery. We saw the evidence of the dramatic landslips that had accompanied the flooding and brought down trees into the torrent, no doubt causing further damage downstream and in the town.

Vegetation has been planted alongside the platform edge where we disembarked in 1960 but the flagstones are still in place and the station canopy is still intact, though in need of a little attention. The conservatory addition to the hotel complex currently serves as a snooker room.

On the conservatory window, there is a notice drawing attention to a group who would like to see the reinstatement of the railway between Keswick and Penrith, though they are quick to make clear that this will not be a heritage railway but a modern business venture offering a regular train service. The website of the organisation [www.keswickrailway.com] has been recently updated to take note of additional post-flood concerns.

The company running the project is called CKP Railways plc. Their website is very clearly set out and explains in detail how they envisage developments will take place. Perhaps my grandchildren’s first approach to the Lake District will not be too dissimilar from my own, after all. Now that would be something to write a Lake District postcard home about. That old road sign on the way into town at the junction of Crosthwaite Road and Brundholme Road may just find it has a new lease of life. Perhaps it will also receive a new coat of paint.